The Mathematics of Deceit
by ParchmentRose
Summary: Events at the tournament at Tios spiral out of control, forcing Marcus to make the decision of his life.
1. Dispute

**Author's Note:** _The Settlers: Rise of an Empire_ belongs to Blue Byte and Ubisoft, most definitely not to me. That said, I can't help but feel somewhat responsible for them after putting them through all this torture.

It is highly recommended you read my previous story, _Hopeless Sincerity_, before this. It serves as an indirect prequel and the events in that tale are repeatedly referenced.

This is a very heavily updated version of the original _The Mathematics of Deceit_ posted on this site.

* * *

_If this were play'd upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction._

_William Shakespeare_

**Part 1**  
_Late summer_

Sir Henry Southmere, castellan of Tios, surveyed the tournament ground with satisfaction. Banners hung from every tree and the sides of the lists, pavilions filled the giant field, and squires swarmed around like bees as they desperately tried to accomplish all the tasks required of them before the jousting began the next day. It was a grand spectacle, and he was responsible for it.

Well, partly. The other person who could take credit was coming across the main lists to him right now.

"Castellan, you've outdone yourself," Lady Alandra de Westerlin said with a smile. The red and white cloak of her order framed her face and floated around her armour. "I am sure the event will be a great success."

"Thank you." Sir Henry bowed. "I would not have been able to accomplish anything without your kind assistance."

"Thank my liege for sending me. Managing Tios was really no trouble."

"I find that hard to believe, but please convey my warmest thanks to your monarch."

"Certainly." Lady Alandra appeared about to speak again, but closed her mouth and turned as a horseman galloped into view from the Tios road. Her smile broadened and she raised a hand in salute as the newcomer approached.

"One of your number, I take it?" Sir Henry asked.

She nodded. "Lord Marcus of Challia."

"I see."

The horse and rider drew near. Lord Marcus appeared to be little more than twenty, but his crest, armour and palfrey proclaimed his lofty rank. Sir Henry considered himself to be somewhat of a connoisseur of horseflesh, and this particular specimen was one of the finest examples of its breed he had seen.

Lady Alandra stepped forward and took the reins of the stallion as its rider brought it to a smooth halt.

"Good afternoon, Lord Marcus," she said. Her smile was unusually warm. Sir Henry suppressed a frown. Lady Alandra was a much too sensible young woman to be involved with a mere boy.

"Please tell me I'm the first from Westerlin." Lord Marcus dismounted and took the reins from Lady Alandra's grasp with a nod of thanks.

"Except for myself, obviously." She gave an amused frown. "Why do you ask?"

"Thordal, Kestral and I had a difference of opinion as to what would be the fastest route from the harbor."

She shook her head laughingly. "Lord Marcus, may I present Sir Henry Southmere, Castellan of Tios?"

The young knight stepped forward, offering Sir Henry his free hand. "Delighted to meet you."

The castellan took it somewhat limply. So far, he was not overly impressed with Darion's second representative. "The pleasure is mine."

Marcus nodded with a grin, apparently not noticing Sir Henry's cold manner. "The lists look excellent. I'm looking forward to trying them out."

"I'm sure you will have an opportunity tomorrow." The castellan stepped away. "If you'll excuse me, I have business at the main pavilion. You must have much to discuss."

He withdrew with a slight grimace.

…

As soon as the castellan was out of earshot, Alandra turned to Marcus, voice urgent. "Is there any news from Janub?"

He shook his head. "Not recently. The last word we had from Lord Hakim was that Crimson Sabatt had abandoned the siege of Juahar."

"Well, that's a slight improvement." Her smile crept back into place. "I must admit that I have been rather concerned about the situation there."

"I'm sure Hakim has it all under control."

"Of course. Are Kestral and Thordal the only others coming from Westerlin?"

"Yeah." Marcus gave a lopsided grin. "Her Majesty thought it was best at least one knight stay at the castle, and Elias drew the short straw. He wasn't too thrilled."

She laughed. "I can imagine."

Hoofbeats rang out again. The pair turned to see Kestral and Thordal cantering into the tournament ground.

Marcus waved cheerily. "I'm going to be in big trouble with them later."

Alandra rolled her eyes. "Of that I have no doubt."

…

"Morning, Marcus!"

Marcus positioned the curry comb on Athos's back and turned to face Kestral. "Good morning! Ready to – what are you wearing?"

Kestral grimaced, tucking her helmet under her arm and shifting uncomfortably. "Armour, idiot. You didn't seriously think I was stupid enough to joust in a jerkin, did you?"

"No, but -" He shrugged, then laughed. "You know the shoulder guard is supposed to be the other way up, right?"

She glared at him, then shoved her helmet into his hands and started unbuckling the offending piece of steel. "How on earth do you wear this every day?"

"You get used to it. Wrong buckle."

She poked her tongue out at him briefly, then snatched back her helmet. "I _was_ going to ask if you wanted to go see who we've been pitted against, but then you started being rude."

He bowed in elaborate mock apology. "Madam, I humbly beg your forgiveness."

"Apology accepted if you buy me a drink."

"Agreed. Let's go."

…

The pair headed out of the temporary stables and wandered towards the main pavilion, speculating improbably about potential opponents.

"Perhaps Her Majesty is coming and intends to joust!" said Kestral, still laughing at Marcus' dry suggestion that the Grandmother of Grandmothers would attend the archery competition.

"Oh, please," sniffed a nearby voice.

Marcus swung around. Lord Fanshaw of Geth, whom he knew by sight, was leaning casually against a hitching post.

"I beg your pardon?" the Knight of Darion asked suspiciously. He knew little of Lord Fanshaw, but what others had told him was not positive.

"Won't you introduce me to your friend?" Fanshaw asked, with a sardonic smile.

Marcus gritted his teeth. All that he had heard was rapidly being confirmed. "Lady Kestral of Gallos, may I present Lord Fanshaw of Geth?"

"Other way around, my dear boy. I'm an earl."

"So am I!" said Kestral indignantly.

"Forgive me, my lady. I had assumed that a bandit would not be elevated much higher than, say, sheriff."

"_Excuse me?" _she bellowed. A few heads turned to look at them.

Marcus grabbed her arm. "Come on, let's go."

"Wise of you, Lord Marcus. Better to avoid confrontation than risk losing."

"Are you calling me a coward?"

"Not at all."

"Good." Marcus turned around and began to march away.

"After all, one must hold peasants to different standards than nobility," Fanshaw continued. "The settler classes are sadly naturally inferior."

Marcus whirled around, voice now dangerously calm. "What was that, Lord Fanshaw?"

"I beg your pardon; I must attempt to speak up. I had forgotten deafness is common amongst the settlers of Challia."

It was Kestral's turn to restrain Marcus. But Fanshaw wasn't finished.

"I was merely stating that the lower classes obviously do not have the same capacity for understanding or honour as the more gently bred. A regrettable but inevitable natural state of affairs."

"I beg to disagree with you." Marcus spoke through clenched teeth, pulling his arm free of Kestral's grip.

"Oh, well, if you prefer to state that it is a happy state of affairs, I shall not dispute with you."

A steel clad fist slammed into Fanshaw's lower jaw. He reeled and grasped at the post for support.

Kestral grabbed Marcus, but she was shutting the stable door after the proverbial horse had bolted. Squires, knights and spectators were all turning their way. Marcus swallowed, backing away a little.

Fanshaw steadied himself and stepped forward, eyes blazing. "Why, you -" he cried and lunged forward. Marcus dodged, but the oncoming fist connected with Kestral. Fanshaw had hit her armour, but that hardly mattered to her friend.

This time, Marcus punched Fanshaw in the stomach.

…

"That's an excellent idea, Lady Alandra," the castellan said as he exited the tent. "I think that the – what in the world?"

Alandra stepped out behind him, following his stare. The entire tournament ground was in an uproar. A crowd was rapidly developing around the lists; people were running to the northern end of the jousting area from all parts of the field. Sir Henry ran in that direction as fast as it was possible for his corpulent body to move, Alandra following.

She soon outstripped him and shoved through the crowds, reaching the centre of the commotion within a few moments.

…

"_Marcus!_"

The Lord of Challia started guilty at the familiar voice and backed away from Fanshaw's latest punch as best he could. His opponent was not deterred, and would have swung at him again had a tournament official not restrained him from behind.

The castellan broke through the crowd and faced the combatants, face a perfect picture of righteous fury. "What is the meaning of this?"

A hush descended. Marcus opened his mouth, then shut it again. Fanshaw spoke first.

"Sir Henry, I was attacked without provocation! I demand -"

The castellan held up his hand, and Fanshaw silenced. "Who struck the first blow?"

Marcus cringed, but denial was not an option. "I did."

Kestral stepped forward, raising her voice. "Your Lordship, Lord Marcus may have struck first, but he was severely provoked."

"Are there any other witnesses of this?"

No one was willing to volunteer themselves. Marcus' pulse was beginning to settle, but his stomach was tying itself in knots. He looked at Alandra. Her face was white.

"Very well," said the castellan. "I shall discuss this with you gentlemen later. Be glad I am not banning you from the day's activities." He spun and marched back to the main pavilion. The crowd slowly began to disperse. Fanshaw shot a venomous glare at Marcus and stalked away. Kestral made eye contact with Marcus, shrugged helplessly, and jogged off towards the stables.

Marcus was about to follow her, but Alandra stepped in his way. She looked even angrier than the castellan had been. "What in the world do you think you were doing? A Knight of Darion, brawling in public …"

He shrugged much the same way Kestral had. "I didn't have a choice."

"Of course you had a choice!" Alandra snapped. "I dread to think what Her Majesty will say."

"You're not going to tell her?"

She raised her eyebrows. "_I_ don't have a choice. Conduct like this has to be reported." The fury faded from her face somewhat. "You better have had an extremely good reason."

"I did." He hesitated. "My honour and descent was called into question, as was Lady Kestral's."

"Kestral is perfectly capable of looking after herself."

"I know _that_. I regretted it almost instantly - I intended to halt the fight until Fanshaw hit her."

Alandra's expression altered, her tone suddenly strange. "I see. I'm sorry; I should have realised." She turned and followed the castellan, leaving Marcus staring blankly at her back.

It took him a moment to realise what conclusion she had jumped to. His heart promptly decided to jump up into his mouth.

She thought he was in love with Kestral.

He turned to the stables, head swimming. It was an insane thought to have. Kestral was a sparring partner and enjoyable company. Nothing more. He didn't even spend that much time with her.

Actually, he thought rather guiltily, he did. Particularly recently. But there was nothing in it at all! There was no way he could love someone he didn't trust more than an inch.

He toyed with the thought of setting Alandra right immediately, but she was still furious and he needed to prepare for the jousting. It could wait a couple of hours.

He entered the shade of the stables and headed over to Athos' stall. Whoops. He'd left the curry comb on his stallion's back. For the _third _time this week. Picking it up, he began to complete the grooming process.

"What was that all about, lad?" Thordal's voice from the next stall over was a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

Marcus sighed and lent against his horse. "Not you too."

"My natural curiosity about brawls can't be helped."

"Got into a fight with Lord Fanshaw of Geth after he made some less than respectful remarks about my parentage."

Thoral laughed heartily. "Good lad. Though I suppose Lady Alandra won't echo my praise."

"No," Marcus muttered. "She didn't."

"Well, I just came to finish gearing up. I'm in the first bout with the new Baron of Randalfingen. Should be a pushover. You're in the second, I think."

Marcus placed the saddle on Athos' back and fastened the girth. "Did you see who against?"

Thordal's grin spread. "You won't like it."

"Spit it out."

"One Lord Fanshaw of Geth."

Marcus' jaw slackened as Thordal doubled over laughing.

…

"Will the first four riders mount and enter the lists?" bellowed the herald, a young man in full regalia, sporting the Tios crest.

Marcus shoved his foot into the stirrup and swung up into the saddle with practiced ease, then nudged Athos' sides. The stallion trotted obediently over to the designated waiting area for combatants.

Thordal was already there, mounted on a massive palomino. He grinned at Marcus, who returned the smile weakly. The Baron of Randalfingen was double-checking all his tack and armor before his spar with Thordal. Fanshaw sat on a black gelding. As Marcus entered the ring he turned his horse and moved as far away as possible. A pair of pages jogged up, carrying Thordal and the Baron's lances.

A trumpet blew. The herald had quite impressive lungs. "If all the spectators will take their places, the first jousts will commence!"

Marcus watched the non-combatants jockey for the best positions at the rail. Once everything had settled, the herald began to yell again, calling out the rules of the joust. Marcus let his mind wander. He'd heard it all before a hundred times. No signaling your horse before the word was given, no sharpened battle weapons, no interference from spectators …

The tournament organisers were seated in a pavilion at the far end of the lists. Alandra was there, discussing something with the castellan. Him, probably, judging by the castellan's red face. He wasn't out of trouble yet.

"The Castellan of Tios may punish any infringement of these rules as he sees fit under tournament law," the herald finished, flourishing his trumpet. "Let the jousting commence!"

…

The first joust was uneventful. No lances were broken and no one was unhorsed. Thordal was declared the winner and trotted out of the lists triumphantly, humming a Narlindir battle anthem. "Good luck, lad!" he called to Marcus as he rode past.

Marcus acknowledged him with a slight salute, then turned back to the lists. He felt slightly sick. Despite his previous resolution to inform Alandra of the truth after the day's activities were over, the misunderstanding was weighing on his mind.

How could Alandra think that he and Kestral … oh, he didn't even want to think it. But what if Kestral thought that too? That would be almost as bad as Alandra believing it.

"Are you all right, sir?"

One of the tournament staff was staring at him curiously.

"Perfectly, thank you," he replied quickly. He slammed down his visor, reducing his vision to a tiny slit.

Something was pressed into his hand. "Your lance, sir," said a voice by his side. He nodded his thanks without looking at the lackey and urged Athos into a trot.

Marcus took his place at one end of the lists, while Fanshaw rode over to the other, shooting Marcus a quick glare before he closed his visor.

The entire tournament ground had seen them fight earlier. This was going to look awful. _Everyone_ would think that this joust, whatever the outcome, was an attempt at petty revenge.

Alandra would think that.

"On three, gentlemen!" bellowed the herald. Marcus readied his lance and shifted in the saddle. "One, two, _three!_"

Marcus slammed his heels into Athos' flanks. The stallion leaped forward, surging along the lists. He rose in the stirrups, raised his shield and aimed his lance.

Impact. Fanshaw's lance glanced off Marcus' shield. The Darion knight's weapon ran true and hit Fanshaw's chainmailed chest.

To Marcus' horror, it sunk in.

Marcus reacted instinctively. He wrenched his arm back and whirled Athos to remove the point of the lance from Fanshaw's chest.

Fanshaw slid from his saddle and crashed to the ground in a limp heap. His horse bolted to the other end of the lists. Marcus hauled back on his reins and examined the point of his lance. Instead of the harmless training weapon he had thought he bore, it was a fully sharpened battle weapon. The tip was freshly stained with blood.

The herald sprinted over to Fanshaw's inert form and bent over him, raising his visor. Marcus lifted his own, mouth dry. If he had killed him …

The voice of one of the lackeys raised above the general commotion. "Call a surgeon!"

The herald stood. "There's no point," he said heavily. "He's dead."


	2. Betrayal

**Author's Note:** Thanks to Rockerduck for beta-reading, not being afraid to tell me when something is rubbish, and for letting me borrow Riaguero.

* * *

_Wisdom is the quality that keeps you from getting into situations where you need it._

_Doug Larson_

**Part 2**

The same day

"Dead?" whispered Marcus. "_Dead_?"

He'd known, of course, from the moment his lance had sunk into Fanshaw's chainmailed chest; but he hadn't wanted to admit it. Now, though, he had no choice, and a tidal wave of implications crashed into his mind and sent him reeling.

He examined the lance again, and upbraided himself for not checking the weapon before the bout. How could he have been so negligent as to accept a lance from a lackey he didn't know – whose face he hadn't even seen?

The crowds around the lists were buzzing with voices and movement. Most were jostling forward in an attempt for a closer look; some few were staring at Marcus with open curiosity. The knight forced himself to take a deep breath. Panicking about the situation would only compound it.

He tossed the lance aside in disgust and dismounted, then shoved up his visor and began to hurry towards the herald.

"Stay back!" the man snapped, glaring at Marcus with such fury the young knight flinched and stopped in his tracks. He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again as his peripheral vision caught a glimpse of movement by the main tent. Alandra was climbing the fence into the lists; the castellan rushing around the long way.

An irrational relief surged over him. Alandra's presence didn't change the fact that he'd just killed his jousting opponent, but he felt better nevertheless.

Alandra sprinted across the grass and dropped to her knees beside the body. The herald strode past Marcus and picked up the discarded lance.

"It's not mine," Marcus said, fighting the growing panic in his chest.

The herald turned to him with an ominous expression in his eyes. "Then please explain, _Lord_ Marcus, how you come to be using it."

"It was handed to me by one of the staff. The hilt is similar to mine – I assumed –" He trailed off under the man's scrutiny.

"Use of a battle weapon in a tournament is a serious offence. Murder, on top of that -"

"_Murder_?"Marcus gasped. "Surely you can't think I planned this!"

Sir Henry reached them at that moment, puffing and red in the face. His eyes blazed. "Oh, but I can, Lord Marcus. Your altercation with Lord Fanshaw earlier today has not been forgotten, I assure you. Hotblooded young men often seek revenge for quarrels."

"_What?_ That was the last thing from my mind!"

"He was distracted before the joust, sir," the herald said pompously.

Sir Henry's eyes narrowed. "Plagued by his conscience, no doubt."

Marcus looked over to Alandra desperately. She was standing up now, lips pressed together, face unreadable. He had never felt so helpless. "I am as horrified by this as anyone, sir! I never intended to even harm Lord Fanshaw, much less –" He swallowed, eyes shooting over to Alandra again as she approached the group.

"He's completely gone." Her voice was devoid of emotion. "He was dead within a moment."

"That settles it," the castellan said, drawing himself up. "Lord Marcus is to be placed under arrest and confined to his quarters until a court is assembled and he can be tried for murder by a jury of his peers."

The dispassionate words clashed with the fury in Sir Henry's face; they felt like a punch to the gut. "Lady Alandra," Marcus pleaded, searching her face for any expression. "You _know_ the truth. Tell them it was an accident." Surely she couldn't believe …

She took a breath, then bit her lower lip. "Marcus …"

"Well? Tell them!"

She looked down at her hands. Marcus felt like the world had been dashed out from under his feet and left him hanging hopelessly in midair.

"You heard my orders," Sir Henry said, his voice now terrifyingly calm. "Lord Marcus is under arrest."

...

"Well?"

Marcus looked up and smiled faintly. "How'd you two get the guard to let you in here?"

Marcus' tent had been stripped bare apart from a camp bed and a few of his possessions; he could see the guard outside the tent flap through the fabric. All of his weapons and anything that could plausibly be used as one had been confiscated, even his razor.

Kestral plonked herself down on the ground across the tent from Marcus. "We told him you were unlikely to murder us."

"Cute, Kes." Marcus was far from amused.

Thordal remained standing, arms folded. "Now, lad, I might approve of a brawl, but I don't approve of doing in your opponent."

Marcus glared up at him from his position on the floor. "Do you think," he said venomously, "that I would even for the smallest moment consider cold-bloodedly murdering someone?"

"Of course not," Kestral huffed. "We're just a bit freaked out by all this. You say it was an accident?"

"Of course it was!"

"Right. And we believe you. But Sir Henry Windbag and his mates seem convinced you wanted to kill Fanshaw because of what happened this morning."

"Which we know is completely unlike you." Thordal nodded to Kestral. "So you'll forgive us for being a bit confused, lad."

Marcus sighed heavily. "You and me both."

Kestral crossed her legs. "Did the lances get switched?"

"They must have. But I can't think how." He made a helpless gesture. "How in the world am I supposed to defend myself at trial if I can't go and look for evidence?"

Kestral made a face. "We'll do our best, but the castellan's pretty much shut the place down, at least until after the trial. We already tried to talk to him, and he's as stubborn as – well, something really stubborn." Marcus cracked a faint smile at that, and she continued with a grin. "I think that scrap earlier pretty much set him up to hate you for life."

Marcus groaned. "We should have just walked away."

"Yeah, we should have. But no use wishing now," said Kestral philosophically.

Thordal cleared his throat, looking highly confused. "Wait a moment. I was under the impression you were defending Kestral's honour."

Marcus felt his cheeks warm; Kestral raised an eyebrow. "What are you blathering about now?"

"Well, I was talking to Alandra before my joust – it was just something she said, but I got the impression …" He trailed off as Kestral blinked at him. Marcus wanted to crawl into a hole.

"So, my dear Lord Thordal, you're saying that you got the impression that _me_ and Lord _Lackbeard_ -"

"Hey!"

She ignored Marcus' protest. "- are a _couple_?"

Thordal shrugged. "I may have misinterpreted her."

Kestral made a gagging noise. Marcus wasn't sure if he should be relieved or insulted. He settled on raising an eyebrow at both of them.

Thordal threw up his hands. "Okay, so I misinterpreted her!"

"Glad we've established that." Kestral sprung to her feet, and her face became deadly serious. "Look, Marcus, we've got your back. You're not going to swing for this if we can help it."

He smiled weakly. "Thanks, guys."

His friends ducked under the tent flap, leaving him alone. He buried his head in his hands.

_Why_ hadn't Alandra spoken up for him? It probably wouldn't have changed the castellan's mind, but it would have made a world of difference to him.

Kestral and Thordal meant well, but they wouldn't be able to change a thing. If Sir Henry wanted Marcus' neck in a noose, he was going to get it, unless …

He had to get out of Tios.

...

Alandra stepped out of her tent, lips pressed firmly together. The sun was approaching the horizon now, and the tournament ground was bathed in an incongruously peaceful bright orange. Squires and lackeys were still dashing around, but it was clear the tournament was on hold until further notice. Several knights had already packed up and left.

Technically, this cancellation wouldn't affect Sir Henry's control of Tios – the wager with the Red Prince had been that he could set up the tournament, not actually continue it to its full duration – but it was still a humiliation for the city-state of Tios and the Darion Empire.

And it was all her fault.

She walked along the rows of tents, hoping that her cape hid her face sufficiently so her inner turmoil would not be visible.

Why hadn't she spoken up for Marcus? The memory of his pleading eyes forced itself into the forefront of her mind. She'd let the flimsy evidence and her misgivings about where his heart might lie affect her conviction that this was beyond him. He would _never_ kill someone in cold blood; she knew that. She'd always known that.

She reached her destination – the main pavilion – and collected herself as best she could before entering.

The castellan was alone in the tent, sitting at his desk organising sheets of paperwork. The neat administrative officer in her noted that his filing system was senseless.

"Ah, Lady Alandra! What can I do for you?"

"You can release Lord Marcus." The heat in her tone was startling even to her. "He is _not_ guilty of murder."

Sir Henry's brow furrowed. "What evidence do you have to back that up?"

"I have my own knowledge and experience. I have known Lord Marcus for almost two years now, and I know he is as incapable of murder as I."

He sighed. "Lady Alandra, your own trust in the boy is not sufficient to clear his name."

"I am his commanding officer; I am in an excellent position to observe his character and I can assure you that he would never willfully murder. My _trust_, as you put it, would be taken as fact from my ruler or any of my fellow knights."

"I think you forget we are not in Westerlin." The sudden fury in his expression was frightening; she resisted the temptation to take a step back from the desk. "I administer justice here, and I shall judge each case as I see fit. If I believe Lord Marcus deserves a tree and a noose, then that is what shall occur."

Alandra blanched. For some reason, the prospect that Marcus could be hanged had never occurred to her. It took her a moment to regather her resources, but when she spoke her tone was ice.

"Castellan, if you continue on your present course and hang Lord Marcus, you will lose the friendship of the Darion Empire. That, I believe, is not something you would wish to risk."

She whirled and swept from the room, wishing her hands weren't shaking.

She'd tried to help, and she'd failed. There was nothing more she could do. She bit her lip and jogged in the direction of Marcus' tent.

A guard stood outside the flap, broadsword at his side. She stepped up to the tent with a curt nod at the fellow, but he blocked her way.

"I need to see your permission from Sir Henry, ma'am."

She glared at the man. "Soldier, I _ran_ the city while Sir Henry set up this tournament. My country _paid_ for the vast majority of it. And the man in there that you and your precious castellan are about to _hang_ is under _my_ command. So don't you _dare_ tell me I can't go in."

The man met her eyes for a moment, then stepped aside. She lifted the tent flap and stepped through, letting it drop behind her.

Marcus whirled at her entrance. The first thing she noticed was that he was in civilian clothes. The second thing she noticed was his face. He was looking at her like she'd stabbed him in the chest.

Bad metaphor.

"What are you doing?" she whispered at a volume she was reasonably certain the guard outside couldn't hear.

"Getting out of here." He bent back down and picked up the bag he'd dropped. "I'm not going to stay here and hang."

She hesitated, taking a deep breath. "By law, I should turn you over to the guard and make you face trial."

He straightened and looked her in the eye. "Go on, then."

She didn't move.

He relaxed his posture, but continued to eye her warily. No, that was wrong. He wasn't wary. He looked betrayed. Utterly and completely betrayed, and it felt like her heart had been ripped out.

"Why are you here?" he asked bitterly.

"I owe you an apology."

"Yeah, you do."

Something inside her bristled at that. He was right, of course, but she would not be snapped at. She drew herself up defensively. "I am aware that my failure to support you this afternoon was inexcusable, and I shan't attempt to make an explanation that would not be accepted."

"So you suddenly know what I'm likely to believe?"

"I did not say that." She took a deep breath, curbing the impulse to anger. "I spoke to Sir Henry just now, and he's intractable. There is nothing more I can do."

"Thanks, Alandra," he said sarcastically. "You've been a real help."

This time the impulse was irresistible. "What do you expect of me? I've taken every recourse I can within the law! I've risked the Empire's diplomatic relationship with Tios! What do you want me to do, declare war?" Her voice was dangerously raised – the guard would be able to hear every word – but somehow she didn't care.

Marcus glared at her with open hostility, then relaxed. But only a little. "You can help me get out of here," he said softly.

She hesitated, then shook her head slowly. "No, Marcus. I'll speak for you at your trial, but I cannot break the law. Justice will take its proper course; I am certain of it."

"Right," he murmured. "_Justice_."

"Marcus, if you are not guilty, then –"

"_If_?" He almost spat the word. She flinched. "Do you not believe me?"

"Of course I do! I just – it was just ..." She trailed off and looked down at her hands.

The silence lasted only a few moments, then Marcus sucked in a deep breath.

"If you've got nothing else to say, Lady Alandra, I would prefer to be left alone."

"Very well, Lord Marcus." She forced herself to walk calmly to the tent flap, open it, step through the gap, and walk away into the gathering dusk. Not once did she meet his eyes.

...

Marcus dumped the bag on the ground and slumped beside it with a groan.

He was as good as dead. Alandra had been his only hope of escape, and now she was walking away. Escape on his own was, of course, impossible. His tent would be well-guarded.

Something rustled behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder. Nothing. Great, now he was imagining things.

He would have to face trial tomorrow, and, in all probability, listen to his own death sentence. Sir Henry hated his guts: there was no way he'd be acquitted in a town that even Elias thought corrupt. He rubbed his eyes wearily and wondered if it was worth sleeping or not.

The fabric at the back of the tent flapped. He scrambled to his feet and turned around, eying it suspiciously. There was no wind; _someone_ had to be causing it.

It shifted again under his eyes, then fell still – but significantly slacker than before. He'd be able to sneak under quite comfortably. Someone must have loosened the ropes.

_Alandra_. Alandra had to have changed her mind. A relieved grin sprung to his lips as he snatched up his bag, then ducked out underneath the tent wall without a second thought.

A figure stood outside the tent, looking down at him with hands on hips. For a heart-stopping moment he thought it might be a guard, but then common sense reasserted itself. No guard would be wearing the rags and hood of a common thief.

His rescuer put a finger to his lips, then jerked a thumb towards the edge of the woods. The route there was mercifully clear of guards, or, as a matter of fact, people of any occupation. Marcus sprung up and made a run for it; the hooded figure close on his heels.

...

After a few moments the two men were heading down the main road to the harbour, with only a sliver of moon to guide their way. Once a cart came clattering into view, and they were forced to duck into the bushes, but for the most part their progress was unimpeded.

Marcus had attempted to ascertain the man's identity and thank him, but the fellow had gruffly ordered him to be quiet unless he wanted the entire Tios army on their heels. Forced to agree with that pragmatic command, Marcus had nothing to do but stare blankly at the road stretching before him.

This was the only way, he told himself. The Darion Empire had no power over Tios law. He'd be convicted and hanged as certainly as the sun would rise in a few hours. He wanted to live.

The dark figure stopped suddenly. Marcus halted beside him, ears straining. Footsteps. And a single set of hoofbeats. Just around the corner.

Marcus began to make a dash towards the brush, but the man caught his arm.

"Friends," he grunted.

"You sure?" Marcus muttered under his breath.

"Sure as I can be."

A group of silhouettes came around the bend. One pointed, and Marcus heard a few low voices amongst the figures.

"Well done, Riaguero." The rider dismounted and stepped forward. Marcus' jaw slackened.

"Thank you, ma'am," the man said, grip tightening on Marcus' arm as he made a move to flee. Marcus promptly swung with his free fist, missed, and was equally promptly overpowered by two soldiers in the uniform of the Red Prince's army.

Crimson Sabatt smirked, flicking short black hair over her shoulder. Her distinctive outfit was just visible in the moonlight. "Good evening, Lord Marcus. Or is it morning? It is so difficult to tell."

Marcus struggled, but the red-coated soldiers were immovable. "What are _you _doing here?" he asked bitterly.

"I could ask you the same question. Shouldn't you be in Tios?"

He scowled. "None of your business."

"Temper, temper."

"Hurry up. We both know you're going to kill me, so skip the bragging and get on with it."

"Killing you would be counterproductive, Lord Marcus. I have a proposition to make."

His scowl deepened. "Nothing _you _could offer would interest me, Sabatt."

She smiled patronisingly. "Not so hasty, please. Wait until you've heard the offer." She hesitated, then launched into a speech. "Your monarch's advances have given my Prince pause. He believes her popularity with the settlers to be the reason for her success, and wishes to reform his policies to be kinder on the people." She looked at Marcus significantly. "You are, I understand, somewhat of a hero to the commoners. Since you are, shall we say, estranged from your friends in the Darion Empire, I believe the Red Prince would be willing to offer you a position as domestic advisor."

Marcus remained silent. She continued, tone derisive.

"Come now, Lord Marcus. There's nothing for you in Vestholm. Do you really think your queen wishes to have convicted murderers amongst her elite soldiers?"

"How do you know about Tios?"

"I have my ways." She smiled enigmatically. "I promise you that the Red Prince is not nearly so quick to judge."

"And I'm supposed to believe you?" His fury was becoming harder to control.

"You are so suspicious, Lord Marcus."

"I have reason. Last time you _promised_ one of my friends something, you tried to kill her!"

"I did not try to kill Lady Alandra."

"Oh, sorry. I must have misinterpreted the _arrows being fired at us!_"

She stared at him for a long moment, face a blank. "I was not the one who gave the order to fire. The archers were insurance if she tried to run. My intention was to capture her, nothing more." Her lips twisted into that hateful smile again. "Believe me, I have better reason to want her alive."

"I still don't see how you expect me to trust you."

"You don't have another option." Sabatt calmly drew a dagger from a sheath in her belt. "You want to live, or you would not have fled Tios. You can die here and be found an apparent suicide by the Tios guard tomorrow morning." She fingered the tip of the weapon with a gloved hand. "But I'm sure neither of us would like that. The alternative is that you accept my offer and improve the lives of Raudrlin's citizens. Your choice."

Marcus swallowed. Death or treachery. Hardly a pleasant choice. But was it really treachery if you had a chance to change the nature of the enemy?

"Promise me one thing."

"That would depend entirely upon what that one thing is."

An image of Alandra's face appeared, unbidden, in his mind. "Give me your word that, if any of them are captured, the Knights of Darion will not be harmed."

Sabatt looked amused. "Your concern for your friends despite their rejection of you is … most touching." She chuckled. "I give you my word."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." She whirled, took the reins of the black horse from one of the soldiers and mounted smoothly. "We shall depart for Rossotorres at once. Riaguero, will you see that Lord Marcus is properly escorted?" She glanced down at the knight with a smirk. "I would hate for you to get lost."

"Your concern," muttered Marcus ironically, "is most touching."


	3. Capture

**Author's Note:** Thanks to Rockerduck for beta-reading, as always.

* * *

_True friends stab you in the front.  
Oscar Wilde_

**Part 3  
**_Autumn_

"Sabatt!"

Crimson Sabatt halted in her progress down a corridor in Rossotorres Castle and turned around. "Yes?" The supercilious expression on her face alone would normally be enough to make Marcus' blood boil; right now it made him want to punch her in the face.

He made a conscious attempt to calm his tone. "You ordered the militia into Gran Castilla."

"I am aware of my own actions," she responded coolly, no trace of guilt in her tone at all. That did it.

"What were you _thinking_?" he bellowed. "There was an uprising there because the people are _dying!_ You found the cure to the Ghost Plague in Juahar – why don't you _use_ it?"

Sabatt tensed, but her expression did not change. "I do not see what business it is of yours, Lord Marcus."

"You don't _see?_ I'm the domestic advisor, you –" He ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. "Right. I get it. Figurehead. You made it quite clear last time."

Her eyebrow flew up. "I did not use the word 'figurehead', precisely, but I am pleased to see that you have grasped the concept so fully."

He shook his head, not even attempting to control his glare. "One day, Sabatt, someone is going to stick a sword in your gut, and I want to be there."

Infuriatingly, she _smiled_. "Before your quite evident dislike of me gets the better of you," she said sweetly, "remember that you would be swinging from a rope in Tios if it were not for my intervention. I can easily return you there."

"I remember," he said through clenched teeth. "It's the only reason I haven't stabbed you myself."

She smirked, whirled, and strode away, leaving Marcus standing alone in the hall.

He groaned out loud, slumping against the cold stone, staring blankly at the red tapestry adorning the far wall.

How in the world had he gotten himself into this? He was as good as a prisoner in the castle of his mortal enemies, without even the actual honour of a cell, forced to pay lip service to tyrants. It was pure torture. The worst of it was the knowledge of his betrayal: even being hanged for murder in Tios seemed honourable by comparison. Every time he saw the Red Prince's standard hanging on a wall or building the knife twisted further.

He had not been outside the Rossotorres city boundaries since his arrival. Sabatt had politely informed him, as they rode under the wickedly sharp portcullis of the main gates, that any attempt to leave would result in him being fired upon from the battlements. He wasn't about to test her word on that. At least he was able to ascertain the strength of the Red Prince's forces – he had been taking in every detail of their training, morale, equipment and duty rosters with a professional eye; he had also made a point of committing every detail of the stone fortress' walls, battlements and gates to memory. But what was the good of spying if you had no way of sending back the information?

He was a fool. A naïve fool who couldn't even take his own advice. The memory of his own warnings to Alandra about trusting Sabatt resurfaced, and he rubbed his face wearily. Despite all he'd seen the Guerannan general do, he'd made exactly the same mistake – and he was paying for it hundredfold.

A hubbub of voices outside. He glared at the leadlight window across the corridor, as if it was to blame for the interruption of his reverie, then straightened up and wandered listlessly over to it. It was probably only the tax collectors returning from their monthly pillage, but even that was more interesting than staring at the ceiling.

He glanced through one of the dirty triangles, and his breath froze in his throat.

A group of red-coated soldiers, apparently returned from a patrol, were surrounding a figure in an achingly familiar red-and-white cloak. The latter was attempting to back away from a burly sergeant, but the others blocked her movements. A derisive laugh echoed up, faint as it reached the window.

Marcus turned and bolted down the corridor, sprinted down the main staircase, shoved past half-a-dozen servants and emerged into the hot autumn sun.

The patrol was grouped at the far end of the dusty courtyard, jeering and milling about. A sudden movement – the defenseless knight tried to make a break for it, but was intercepted. The sergeant shoved her to the dirt floor, voice raised above the general cacophony.

"Not so tough without a sword at your side, are you?" he sneered, back turned to Marcus. "That'll teach you to try and run."

Marcus didn't think twice. He ran across the courtyard and forced his way through the group, stopping behind the sergeant and tapping him on the shoulder.

"Excuse me," he said politely.

The burly man whirled, and a steel-clad fist slammed into his jaw. He staggered, then fell senseless to the ground.

Marcus flexed his hand, smiling grimly, then turned back to the knight on the ground. Her cape hung about her face, concealing her features. But even before she looked up, he knew what he would see.

Alandra.

She looked no different to the last time he had seen her months earlier – same gold hair and blue eyes. But her face was white, and as she looked at him her eyes grew wider, then hardened.

Suddenly hesitant, he offered her his hand. She took it, scrambled to her feet, looked him squarely in the face, and slapped him.

He winced despite himself. It took a moment to recover from the complete shock.

"Not quite the thanks I expected," he mumbled.

"It's no less than you deserve," she spat viciously, her fists clenching. "No wonder we couldn't find you in Westerlin. You've been too busy comfortably establishing yourself in Rossotorres, you traitor."

A lance in his chest could not possibly hurt as much as those words. He rubbed his stinging cheek gingerly, at a complete loss.

"Pardon, your Lordship." One of the other men knuckled his forehead. "We 'ave orders from Lady Sabatt to take the prisoner to the dungeon."

"I see," murmured Marcus, with a last glance at Alandra. Her defiant glare made him flinch anew. "Carry on."

…

"You gave me your word!"

Crimson Sabatt sighed quietly, placed her pen back in her inkwell, and looked up. Lord Marcus was standing over her desk, fury etched in every facet of his expression, eyes blazing. Hardly surprising: Sabatt had received news a few minutes earlier of the capture of Lady Alandra de Westerlin by a patrol – as well as the incident in the courtyard.

"I am unaware of the rules of etiquette in Challia, but in Gueranna entering a private office unannounced is considered the height of rudeness." She folded her hands across the carefully written ledger before her.

"You gave me your _word_," he repeated, voice low. "You promised that Ala – none of the Knights would be harmed if captured."

"And I have kept it." Her calm, smooth tone was carefully calculated to drive Marcus up the wall. "Lady Alandra is unhurt, is she not?"

He placed his hands on her desk and lent forward, voice almost a hiss. "One of your men attempted to molest her!"

"He was going against my orders." The duration of her shrug was long enough to infuriate Marcus further, but not so long that her delay would be noticeable. She had had three months now to practice winding Marcus up, and flattered herself that she had made an art of it. "And I would not bring that up were I in your situation. I have it on good authority that you assaulted one of my sergeants."

The boy's frown deepened. "I had provocation."

"I fear that the Red Prince might not see it that way." She picked up her pen again, smiling mischievously. "Calm yourself, Lord Marcus. Your lady love will not be harmed."

"She is _not_ my lady love," he said, teeth clenched. His icy blue glare was actually mildly unsettling. "But if any of your men lay a finger on her, I will hold you personally responsible. And you know what that would mean."

He spun and stormed out. Sabatt shrugged philosophically and returned to her ledger.

…

Marcus strode down the passage, mind twisted and jumbled as if someone had physically shaken him and left the threads of his thoughts trampled on the ground. Alandra was here, and that was wonderful and horrible all at the same time. He was inexpressibly glad to see her, but the thought of her rotting in a Raudrlin dungeon was gut-wrenching. He had to get her out of here; she didn't deserve this.

But he did. The fury in her blue eyes presented itself forcefully before his inward eye. He _was_ a traitor. He had deserted the Darion Empire and betrayed his friends. His cowardly excuses to himself about changing the nature of the enemy had come to naught. He had no justification. He knew that now, and it almost choked him.

He gritted his teeth. Self-recrimination was useless. The one thing he wanted right now was Alandra's forgiveness.

He turned a corner and jogged down a flight of torchlit stone steps. It was far from the Gothic dungeons of Thordal's tales: there were no cobwebs, no rattling chains and bleached bones. But it didn't need those touches to be intimidating – the roughly-hewn blocks in the walls and flickering candles were enough.

A pair of red clad soldiers guarded the iron door to the cellblock; they let him pass with a brief nod. He strode down the aisle of empty cells – Rossotorres Castle itself housed few literal prisoners – and soon reached Alandra's.

She was huddled in a corner, knees drawn up to her chest, face shadowed by the folds of her cloak. She showed no sign of noticing his arrival – in fact, she showed no sign of life at all.

He gripped the cold metal bars, wishing he could simply twist them away. "I'm so sorry," he whispered.

"You should be." She didn't look up; her every syllable dripped resent. He closed his eyes and lent his forehead against the bars.

"I – I know."

He heard her take a ragged breath. "Why? _Why_, Marcus?"

He remembered her betrayal of him in Tios, voice sharpening, stomach suddenly churning with anger. "It was this or hang."

"No, it wasn't."

He opened his eyes. She was looking up at him now, face twisted in bitter misery. "You wouldn't have hung. We would have gotten you off."

"You can't know that."

"I can." Anger flashed in blue eyes. "It was all a trap; you can guess who laid it."

"What?"

"Sabatt has her fingerprints all over this. She put Fanshaw up to the brawl, switched the lances, then bribed Sir Henry to make sure that you never got back to Westerlin."

Marcus blinked. Everything fitted so neatly, but it was refusing to sink in.

"We thought she was just planning to have you hanged. I should have known better. She 'rescued' you, didn't she?"

"Yes," Marcus whispered, chest suddenly hurting.

"You walked right into her snare. She wanted to make you desperate enough that you'd do anything to live." Alandra laughed hollowly. "It wasn't enough just to kill you. She wanted to take you and make you dance like a puppet on a string."

His fist squeezed tighter around the iron. "How do you know all this?"

"Thordal and Kestral. They found all the evidence." She pressed her lips together; her gaze dropped. "We looked everywhere for you. I thought you had gone back to Challia. I never dreamed –" Her voice caught.

Marcus closed his eyes again, clenching his teeth. It had all been for nothing. If only he had trusted Kes and Thordal … oh, he was so _stupid_. A fool and a traitor. Words would not come for what seemed like a century.

"I truly am sorry," he murmured haltingly. "I – I can't say how much. I never –" His grip twisted ever stronger. "Please forgive me. Please."

She did not move. Her cloak hung over her face: a fragile yet impenetrable barrier. If the earlier silence had been a century, this one was an eternity.

"I forgive you." Her voice shook. "But please leave me alone."

He complied.

…

Alandra watched him walk away, then let her head sink onto her knees and closed her eyes.

For three months now, she'd been wondering and hurting and blaming herself. Her inexcusable failure to support him had caused his flight. The evidence had been so condemning that Sabatt must have known that even his friends would doubt him. Even if it was only for a moment.

A moment was long enough.

She chewed her lower lip. Marcus' life was in irreparable pieces because she had failed in her duty as an officer. And a friend.

And it wasn't just _his_ life. With his defection, the Darion Empire had lost one of its best officers at a time when their standard needed all that they could raise. Now that she was in captivity too, Vestholm and all of Westerlin was in danger. How could she be such a fool as to think she could handle a solo scouting mission near Rossotorres?

She had no way of getting word back to her men at the coast, let alone back to Castle Vestholm. Oh, she was so … so _stupid_.

…

_Tios, three months earlier_

"Well, I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but none of us liked him much."

Thordal nodded and took a swig from his tankard. It was barely dawn, but that hadn't stopped him from breaking into the mess tent and procuring something almost, but not entirely, unlike mead. It also hadn't stopped him from waylaying one of Lord Fanshaw's associates from Geth by the lists as the tournament grounds gradually woke.

Now he found himself leaning casually against the fence, making equally casual conversation with a Lord Duncan from somewhere-near-Geth-he-couldn't-remember-but-had-probably-raided-once. Apparently he and Fanshaw had travelled down to Tios in the same group.

"He tended to rub people up the wrong way," Lord Duncan continued, taking a sip from his own mug. "You know, just by saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. It was a right nightmare sometimes; he got us into trouble more than once. Still a pity, though."

"Aye." Thordal attempted to look sympathetic. "Did he have any family?"

Duncan shrugged. "I only knew him for a few months, so I wouldn't be able to tell you. I think he mentioned a wife, but apparently she ran away from him years ago. Don't blame her, really. He was terrible with women. Always managed to get them to hate him no matter how much he buttered them up."

"I know the type."

"Exactly." He nodded wisely. "I did see him having a little private chat with a dame back in Raudrlin, a few days before we reached here, but she didn't seem particularly friendly."

"Nice girl?"

"Oh, a beauty. One of those Guerannan girls, you know – black hair, tall, that sort of thing. Looked good in red, too."

Alarm bells screamed in Thordal's head. "Did you catch her name?"

"Nope. I only saw her from a distance in any – where are you going?"

Thordal was already ten paces away. "Something I've got to do before the trial!" he called back. "Thanks for your help!"

He charged in the direction of the main pavilion, leaving Lord Duncan by the railing. Out of nowhere, Kestral streaked into his path and they both slammed to a halt, speaking at the same time.

"One of Fanshaw's mates saw Crimson Sabatt talking to him before he got here!"

"Sir Henry has a thousand gold pieces not reported in the account books stashed away in his quarters!"

Thordal blinked.

"I don't even want to know how you found that out, Kestie."

She grinned impishly. "Sometimes my chequered past has its uses. Wait, did you say _Crimson Sabatt_ spoke to Fanshaw?"

"Learn to listen, lass."

"We have to tell Marcus and Alandra." The young woman glanced around, then pointed to a tent at the far end of the row. A figure in a red, white and gold cloak was just stepping out of it. "Move it, ginger!"

The pair sprinted across the field, reaching Alandra before she'd taken ten steps.

"What in the world are you two doing?"

"It's a set-up," Thordal panted. "Crimson Sabatt was seen speaking to Fanshaw a few days ago –"

"– and _someone_ gave Sir Henry a thousand gold pieces he's most definitely not supposed to have." Kestral finished, still gasping for air. "Sabatt must have put Fanshaw up to a fight with Marcus, switched the lances, then bribed the castellan into making sure Marcus was done away with."

"The perfect plan," Thordal burst in again. "Get rid of one of the Knights of Darion while smearing the Empire's reputation and sabotaging the alliance with Tios at the same time."

Alandra's face was white. "You're certain?"

"As certain as we can be."

"Then what are we waiting for?" She set off at a flat run towards Marcus' tent, closely tailed by Kestral. Thordal followed, still breathing heavily.

Something was wrong. Half a dozen guards were standing outside Marcus' tent, arguing frantically.

Alandra burst into the group, voice raised, instantly a commander. "What's going on?"

"Lord Marcus has disappeared, your Ladyship," one of them reported warily.

The three Knights of Darion turned to each other, temporarily mute.

Kestral slapped her forehead. "Way to confirm your guilt, Lackbeard," she muttered.

Thordal groaned in agreement, then forced a smile. "The lad'll show up eventually. There's nowhere he can disappear forever. In the meantime, there's still the matter of the castellan taking bribes from Crimson Sabatt."

"I'll deal with that," said Alandra grimly. "Just furnish me with proof."

…

_Rossotorres, the present_

Footsteps. Alandra looked up. A figure in crimson stood on the other side of the bars, one hand behind her back, the other tapping her thigh.

"Lady Alandra." The Guerannan woman inclined her head.

Alandra stood. "Crimson Sabatt."

"I apologise for the earlier incident." Sabatt cleared her throat. "My men are occasionally a little indecorous."

"That is certainly one way of putting it," Alandra muttered.

Sabatt ignored the comment. "I have a matter I wish to discuss with you."

"I have no wish to hear it."

The Red Prince's general smiled briefly. "You have little choice."

Alandra took a deep breath. Belligerence would not help matters, but she would not be lectured. "I am aware of that, but do not think I will accept your proposal. Unlike Lord Marcus, I have not been tricked into believing you sincere."

"I did not trick Lord Marcus."

"You think I don't know what happened in Tios? Has it not occurred to you to wonder why the castellan has been impeached?"

A flicker of something – surprise? – flashed across Sabatt's face. "Very well, then. I shall not attempt to conceal my part in events. I do not, however, have any particular interest in Lord Marcus. His presence here is for one purpose only."

Alandra blinked. "You wanted us to come looking for him. He's bait."

Sabatt chuckled. "You are remarkably astute. While I cannot deny it would be useful if he were to serve our cause, he is primarily, as you so eloquently put it, bait. Your capture was impossible as long as you were in Westerlin. I needed you to abandon your stronghold." She smirked. "It was very helpful of you to come out here alone."

Alandra forced her face to remain impassive. "You want me, in particular. Why?"

The door clanked. Sabatt turned around and bowed as the Red Prince, identifiable by his ornate robes, entered the cellblock.

Alandra raised an eyebrow. He was shorter than she'd expected.

"Crimson Sabatt," he said tersely. "I wish to speak to you."

"As you wish, my prince." Sabatt bowed, nodded to Alandra, and followed him down the corridor with a flip of black hair.

…

Marcus stormed down the corridor, not caring if he were to scuff the Red Prince's precious Janubian carpets. His chest felt tight.

At least Alandra had forgiven him. He knew he didn't even deserve that. He had to get her out of here, somehow, before Sabatt forgot her promises again and decided it would be a good idea to make an example of the Darion Army's commander. With the amount of power Marcus seemed to have around here, his only recourse was an appeal to the top.

He'd only visited the Red Prince's personal office twice during his time in Rossotorres. Raurlin's ruler generally tended to ignore his existence; he even ignored Sabatt except when she had news or a report. That was a relief – bowing to the man who represented all that he hated was almost enough to make him sick.

He approached the ostentatious double doors and raised one hand to knock, then paused. Voices murmured inside.

Sabatt was in there.

He glanced around, then pressed his ear to the keyhole.

"I fail to see why you could not do this in the first place," the Red Prince was saying. "A simple capture during a patrol is far more efficient than your previous elaborate schemes."

"The 'simple capture', my Prince, was only possible because we were lucky." Sabatt's tone was brutally frank. "Lady Alandra was careless enough to stray onto our own territory alone. Most of the Knights of Darion are more cautious. My elaborate scheme, as you put it, to secure the allegiance of Lord Marcus was necessarily complex because we could not rely on good fortune to carry the day."

Marcus bit his tongue, suppressing the gibe that threatened to escape his lips. Alandra was right.

"Watch your tongue, Crimson Sabatt." The sound of pacing. "But it did not work. You said it yourself, my servant." There was a faint stress on the last word. "We have the two most senior officers in the Darion Empire's army. I shall deal with them as I see fit. Without their allegiance they are useless except for what information we can extract from them, and we do _not_ have it."

"Not yet," Sabatt said quietly.

The pacing stopped; the Red Prince's tone was sharply sarcastic. "Less cryptic, if you please."

"It is true that I underestimated Lord Marcus' attachment to the Darion Empire. His loyalties quite clearly still lie with them. But revenge is a powerful motivator."

Marcus gritted his teeth.

"Continue."

"Lady Alandra has surmised the truth about the events in Tios, and has, in all probability, informed Lord Marcus."

"That is the opposite of what we want."

"Exactly, my prince. But with care, we can still gain the trust of Lord Marcus. We twist the story – find a way to prove she's lying. Who is he going to believe: his rescuer from hanging, or the woman who was ready to let him swing?"

Marcus turned and bolted down the corridor. He'd heard enough.

Did Sabatt think he was really that gullible? Or disloyal? Blind fury warred in his chest with the sickening realisation her conclusions had basis in fact. He had betrayed his friends once at her bidding, and she was counting on him to do it again.

Not a chance. He wasn't going to be a pawn in her game.


	4. Redemption

**Author's Note:** Thanks to Rockerduck for proofreading and ideas, particularly with regards to Sabatt and marketplace destruction.

* * *

_The course of true love never did run smooth.  
William Shakespeare_

**Part 4**  
_The same day_

Marcus barreled down the steep spiral staircase, running his hand along the wall in an attempt to keep his balance. He could barely see a thing: one of the torches was out and his eyes were still adjusting from the brighter lights of the main castle.

He reached the guards at the cellblock door and charged past them without a second glance. The rusting spare keys hung on the wall just inside the dungeon; he snatched them from their hook and strode down the corridor to Alandra's cell.

She was sitting, arms folded, in the far corner of her prison. As he neared her, she scrambled to her feet, watching him warily. He shot her what he hoped was a reassuring look and inserted the key into the lock.

It wouldn't turn.

His momentary panic faded when he realised he'd used the wrong key. Three months and he still didn't understand the Red Prince's senseless labeling system.

Second time lucky. The key turned under his fingers and he swung the door open. Alandra was still pale, eyes wide.

Marcus winked. She relaxed, relief flooding her face. He jerked his head in the direction of the guards with a warning frown, then grabbed her arm. She yelped as he pulled her through the doorway.

"Sorry," he mouthed, loosening his grip a little. Unpleasant though it was, he had to fool the guards into thinking of him as the Red Prince's lackey.

As he marched her through the main dungeon door the guards evidently decided his actions were worth questioning.

"Oi, what are you doing?" objected one, hand shifting almost imperceptibly towards his sword.

Marcus drew himself up with dignity. "Escorting the prisoner to the commander for questioning," he said with his most severe frown, "and I shall report you to her for questioning a superior officer."

The man blanched. "Sorry, sir." Marcus had never thought he'd be so glad for the Red Prince's brutal discipline. No one dared risk disobedience.

"No harm done. But don't do it again!" he called over his shoulder as he pretended to shove Alandra up the staircase.

He released her arm as they rounded the corner, letting her move ahead. She paused, glancing back at him with a twinkle in her eye.

"You lied."

"Depends on your point of view. Keep moving!"

She turned and sprinted up the stairs. He followed two steps at a time, almost crashing into her as she paused at the top.

"Which way now?"

He gestured down the cold stone passage. "Back stairs. We'll head for the stables. No one suspects me yet – if we're quick and lucky, we might make a clean getaway."

"Right." She set off down at a quick walk, then glanced up at him as he moved alongside her. "Marcus, I –"

"Now is really not the best time."

She nodded briefly, increasing her pace.

…

Marcus' scrupulous attention to the castle layout over the past three months paid off as he had never dreamed it would. Rossotorres Castle was huge and rambling, but that was to their advantage: some parts of the castle were barely entered from day to day. The escaping pair jogged down deserted servant's staircases and sprinted along disused passages, only occasionally detouring or halting to avoid guards and staff.

The stables were mercifully empty. A dozen equine heads came up as they entered from the back door, but, thankfully, none of the horses reacted to their presence with any noise. Marcus rushed into the nearest dusty stall, snatching up a saddle from the rack. Alandra ducked into the next stall over.

Marcus hefted the leather onto the back of the startled bay gelding. "Getting out of the castle will be no problem. The battlements here are never guarded." He pulled the girth into position. "It's the main gates we need to worry about."

"One step at a time." He heard Alandra's steed snort as she jerked the straps tight.

"Where's Daria? I refuse to believe that you came out here on foot." He grabbed a handy bridle and slipped the bit into the gelding's mouth, not caring if it was the wrong size.

"I left her at a ruin south of the river. I was trying to scout on foot." The bitterness in her tone was clear. "Much good that did me."

"Right. Head straight out of the courtyard and down the road to the marketplace, then out the southeast gate. If we get separated, just go to the ruin. Don't stop. Whatever happens." He turned and looked her in the eye. "Okay?"

She nodded shakily, buckling the straps on her bridle. "Got it."

Marcus double-checked all the straps one last time, then led the bay from his stall. He smiled wryly at Alandra. "Good luck."

"You too." She took a deep breath, returning his grin. "See you at the ruins."

He swung into the saddle and gathered up the reins, checking behind him to see that Alandra was ready.

"Here goes nothing."

Then he slammed his heels into his mount's sides and they surged between the stalls.

…

Marcus and his steed hadn't made it six feet out of the stables before the former realised they had a problem. The grassy courtyard was packed with soldiers, all between them and the gate. He groaned inwardly and hauled on the reins. The bay danced wildly sideways, then galloped towards a smaller archway in the wall as a shout went up from the red-clad troops.

He glanced over his shoulder. Her roan was following at an dangerous pace for such an enclosed area. He turned back and spurred his horse through the gateway.

The Red Prince's rose garden was hardly an ideal alternate route, but it would have to do. They raced down the narrow brick pathway towards the central square, like a knife slicing through the blood red flowerbeds.

"Are you insane?" Alandra shouted.

Marcus winced as his mount narrowly avoided crashing into a marble statue. "Quite possibly!"

Two figures were standing in the centre area; the pair whirled as hooves bore down on them.

Marcus' horse swerved wildly, missing Crimson Sabatt and the Red Prince by inches. He suppressed the urge to laugh as a furious cry came from behind him. He glanced around, spotted another gateway out, yanked the reins and steered the bay right through the middle of a manicured rose bed.

Flowers went flying and dark soil spat up as the two horses bolted across the garden and out the side gate, the angry shouts growing fainter as they left Raudrlin's leader and his agent behind.

They emerged outside the castle walls onto a clear dirt track leading to the main road. Marcus bent low and signaled his mount, checking behind him again. Alandra was keeping up, and no pursuers in sight. Yet.

They reached the end of the trail and swerved into the road, jolting along the uneven cobbles. Men, women, children and animals scattered in front of them. A bird flew up; the bay shied sideways. Marcus kept his seat and urged the horse forward, steering him around a cart of soap.

Voices bellowed behind him. He risked a look back. Alandra was galloping just behind; sprinting through the castle gates were a dozen soldiers. Lovely.

Apparently in response to an order from the troops, a merchant pulled his cart around at the mouth of the road, blocking all access to the marketplace. _Oh, great_. Glance around. Nowhere to go. Nothing for it.

Marcus bent low and stood in the stirrups, giving his mount a sharp kick. A second of the wind roaring in his ears, a surge of power from the gelding's hind legs, a moment of weightlessness, then a jerk that knocked the wind out of him.

Still in the saddle, and in the marketplace. It was packed: crates were being loaded into the storehouse by the aid of a massive wooden crane, and the workers and boxes filled what space the massive fountain and statue atop it didn't. Marcus plowed across the stone, horse dodging townspeople, looking over his shoulder.

Alandra and her steed reached the cart; the roan jumped. Almost clear – then the horse's hindleg caught the wood and both mount and rider crashed to the stone cobbles.

Heart in his mouth, Marcus hauled the bay to a halt. It danced skittishly, but nominally obeyed. Alandra stumbled to her feet, cape still somehow attached to her head.

"Go!" she yelled.

He should. If he had any sense at all, he'd turn his horse and flee. It was what they'd agreed. But he didn't, and in that second of hesitation, someone loosed the tethers controlling the crane.

A load of boxes swung overhead, bare feet from Marcus' head. An equine scream, a heave of muscles from underneath him, a rush of air. He hit the ground with a sickening thud, rolled away from the plunging bay, and sprung up.

The crane's load smashed into the statue of the Red Prince. A creak, a crash, then half of the monument gave way and dropped into the water with a resounding crash. Marcus' horse rushed uncontrollably past the commotion, towards the northern end of the marketplace.

Marcus turned frantically. Buildings, crowds, carts, tax collector, soldiers climbing over the wrecked cart, Alandra running towards him.

Tax collector.

The armored soldier, by a building at the far end of the plaza, was beginning to run towards the commotion. Left by the bakery he was moving away from was a grey horse.

Marcus sprinted through the crowd, dodging people, crates and animals. He met the soldier halfway, ducked a blow, aimed his own, and sent the man sprawling. Gasping raggedly, lungs refusing to take in air, he completed his rush and vaulted into the saddle without a pause.

The stallion kicked out; Marcus clung to his mane and returned the favour. Whirling the thoroughly spooked horse, he cantered back towards the fountain, then screeched to a stop as he reached Alandra.

"Deja vu!" he yelled, extending a hand.

She grabbed it and scrambled up behind him, aiming a kick at an enterprising settler who attempted to grab her cape. Marcus turned the prancing grey and let it run.

They headed flat out towards a massive red stone edifice. The double gateway. Wind, the thunder of hoofbeats and dim shouts roared in Marcus' ears. The portcullis of the outer gate jerked, then began to sink lower. Tiny red figures began to appear on the battlements.

"Hang on!" he shouted, leaning forward and jabbing his heels into the grey's sides. Alandra's arms clasped around his waist.

Closer, closer. Under the first archway. Into the gap. He was dimly aware of arrows falling around them from all sides like rain. Sharp, pointy, painful rain. One glanced off the metal grating lowering ahead with a sharp ring.

The grey shied sideways; Marcus jabbed him sharply, holding him on course. Powerful legs churned – the breath was ripped from Marcus' throat as their speed increased.

Near, under, then through with feet to spare. Marcus heard the thud as metal teeth bit into the ground. The grey stumbled and almost crashed down the steep hill like a rolling barrel, but Marcus' hand kept his head up and his heels kept him moving forward. A few arrows embedded into the soil around them.

They reached a plateau and streaked forward; trampled through a grain field, dodged a cow, then dashed down another rocky slope. The grey stumbled on scree. Alandra slipped; her arms tightened in a death grip around Marcus' waist.

They careened down the rest of the way and bolted across a plain, trampling dry grass and scraggly bushes. Marcus felt Alandra shift behind him.

"They're not following us!" she shouted.

"Good." Marcus' fingers were entwined stiffly around the reins; it took a conscious effort for him to loosen his grip. "Where's this ruin of yours?"

She pointed ahead. A snaky blue river wound along the edge of the open land. Across the sandy ford was a forest of short, scrawny trees; orange stone was visible between green branches. "There."

"Okay." Marcus allowed the grey to slow to a trot. "That was exciting."

Alandra chuckled behind him. "You, Marcus, are a master of understatement."

…

They reached the shade of the forest. Half the wall of the ruin was on the ground; the stone was overgrown with pieces of vine and bush. They trotted through a natural doorway into the grassy centre. Daria, Alandra's chestnut mare, was tethered to a stump by a long rope. She danced eagerly as they entered, whinnying in greeting. Alandra laughed.

Marcus squeezed the reins and brought the grey to a stop. Alandra released her grasp and slid easily from the horse's back, then strode across to her long-suffering horse.

Marcus dismounted awkwardly, holding in a groan. His awareness of pain was returning with a vengeance: his stiff muscles ached and his eyes stung from having sand thrown up in them. He watched Alandra soothe her mount, and chuckled softly. "You okay?"

"Of course." She turned to him. "Are –" She gasped, smile abruptly transforming to utter horror as she stared down at his legs.

He looked down, and was almost knocked over by a wave of nausea. The wooden shaft of an arrow protruded from his right thigh, sticking out of the chainmail like a knife. His entire leg was a mess of thick, partially dried blood.

"Whoops," he mumbled. His own voice sounded miles away.

His knees refused to support him any longer, buckling as the world faded into blackness.

…

Sabatt brushed dark soil from her leg with distaste, watching the Red Prince pace along the brick path. She had seldom seen him so furious. As for her, she congratulated herself that she was handling this rather well.

The prince spun around, facing her with a glower. "Why do you not join the chase?"

"I have ordered pursuit. My presence would make little difference."

"You are coming dangerously close to insubordination, my servant."

Sabatt controlled her face carefully. "I apologise for my manner of expression."

The monarch did not deign to acknowledge her admission, instead picking up a snapped rose stem. "I want them _caught_. Now."

"As you wish, my prince." She bowed and stepped back, heading for the gateway. One of the paving stones was cracked across where a hoof must have hit it particularly hard.

She had no intention of following his order. Their recapture would be counter-productive. Knowing the Red Prince, his immediate reaction would be their torture and execution, and she needed Lady Alandra alive. Thanks to her master's enthusiasm for punishment, the Darion Army's commander had escaped her again.

This was beginning to be a slight problem.

…

Pain. His leg throbbed unbearably; his head felt like it was stuffed with wool.

He opened his eyes for a second, but it was a second too long. He groaned dizzily, letting them sink closed again.

"Easy." Alandra's voice slowly came into focus. "I know it hurts like anything, but it's not serious."

He forced his eyes open again. He was lying on the ground where he had fallen; Alandra was kneeling beside him, one hand on his shoulder, the other examining the wound.

"Simple for you to say," he mumbled. "You're not the one with an arrow sticking out of your leg."

She pressed her lips together, feeling around the edges of the pierced chainmail. He winced.

"It's a straight shaft, no barbs. I could remove it without doing too much more damage, as long as it isn't holding back internal bleeding." She met his eyes. "Which is a risk."

Marcus gritted his teeth. "Do it. I can't ride like this."

"Are you sure?"

"Just – just get on with it."

"Okay." She took a deep breath, then took the shaft in her hand and pulled.

It was all Marcus could do not to cry out. He bit down hard, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Marcus?" Her voice was shaking.

"Still here," he whispered.

She exhaled. Rustling, then a ripping sound. He opened his eyes. She had pulled off her cape and was tearing it into strips. A mop of shoulder-length blonde hair curled around her face. The fabric rent sharply with each tug.

"Don't – your cape," he protested feebly, annoyed at how weak his voice sounded. For some reason he couldn't fathom, the destruction of the familiar garment seemed very important.

"I'll get another." She smiled briefly at him and began to bind one of the strips around his leg. He flinched as she pulled it tight. "You must have been hit at the gates. You've lost quite a bit of blood, but it looks uglier than it is."

He propped himself up on one elbow, then shoved himself into a sitting position with a hiss of pain. "Can I still ride?"

"You'll have to." She finished tying the makeshift bandage and began to gently wipe away the blood with another strip. "We're quite a distance from the coast."

"Hooray." The sarcasm didn't make him feel any better. He looked around, trying to reorient himself. Daria and the grey were exactly where they had been a few moments ago, watching him curiously. The sun was still high in the sky, casting broad shadows from the collapsed walls and making the pool of blood under his leg look black. It was vaguely sickening. He made himself swallow.

"I'm sorry."

She looked up; her expression softened. "I know."

"I didn't mean to kill Fanshaw. And I was an idiot to trust Sabatt. And a traitor." The words continued to tumble out. "I never should have even considered her offer. But I thought I could – perhaps – I'm sorry."

"I know," she repeated, reaching forward and squeezing his hand. She looked stunningly beautiful: blue eyes glowing, blonde curls twisting about her chin. Was this really the first time he'd seen her without her cape? "I forgive you. And I know the others will too."

"Thank you," he whispered, gratitude swelling up.

She squeezed his hand a little tighter.


	5. Epilogue

**Author's Note:** Thanks to Rockerduck for beta-reading and giving well-meant suggestions that I'm too stubborn to take. More detailed and overly sappy author's notes at the end.

* * *

_Journeys end in lovers meeting,  
Every wise man's son doth know.  
William Shakespeare_

**Epilogue  
**_The same day_

Crimson Sabatt looked at the wreck that was Rossotorres Marketplace, resisting the urge to smile. The head and shoulders of what was formerly a statue of the Red Prince lay in the now-overflowing fountain. Water seeped through the cobbles in all directions. Carts were overturned and crates were scattered; the contents of both spilled over the white stone. The destruction caused by the escaping Knights of Darion was certainly impressive.

For Lord Marcus was still a Knight of Darion. She'd known that for some time now, as she had told the Red Prince. What she hadn't told him was that she knew this was a lost cause. The boy – and his noble commander – were both too loyal and honourable for their own good. Particularly once they were together. It wasn't the first time a united front from the pair had subverted her plans with regard to Lady Alandra.

_The better part of valor is discretion_. Sometimes even she had to know when to step back and try another strategy.

The Prince stormed over from the destroyed fountain, face as red as his robe. "Have you ordered repairs, my servant?"

"Yes." She inclined her head. "Rossotorres will return to normal within a few days."

"And the prisoners? I expect their capture."

"Yes, my prince." _No_.

"Excellent." The grey-haired monarch turned and strode back down the main road. She followed him with a brief smirk.

She was Crimson Sabatt and she had not yielded.

She was merely flexible.

…

_Vestholm, a month later_

Marcus whistled tunelessly as he limped along the upper hallway of Castle Vestholm. He and Alandra had returned a week earlier, and it was good to be home.

Vestholm was home. He never would have said that a year ago, but it was. He could no more imagine returning to Challia than he could consider flying.

Of course, anything would seem favourable compared to Rossotorres Castle. The sight of the azure banners and grey stone ramparts had been an inexpressible relief.

It had not been strictly necessary, legally, but Her Majesty had arranged a quick trial a few days after he had returned just to prove everything was above board. Marcus had been insulted, but Alandra had convinced him to submit.

"She's trying to clear your name, Marcus," she'd said. "So be quiet and stop being difficult."

He had, and the trial had ended the day before. Now he was a free man, and he was only favouring his leg a little. Life was fantastic.

He reached the top of the main staircase and began to descend it, still cautious, one hand on the banister as he jogged down. Halfway, he stopped. Alandra was just beginning to come up.

She smiled up at him, new cape floating down her back. "Feeling cheerful?"

"Never better." He looked around, gesturing to the room as a whole. "I missed this place."

"Me too." She chuckled, then sighed happily. "It's good to be home."

"My thoughts exactly."

She reached him at that moment, stopping two steps below him, hand also resting on the rail. "You're not going to be so thrilled when you see the pile of paperwork I've got for you to do. I have two months of reports to catch up on, and I need help."

He bowed, grinning, surprising himself with how ready he was co-operate. Normally he'd at least suppress a groan. "At your service."

She returned the grin and seemed ready to continue on her way.

"Alandra." He cleared his throat. If he could rehearse a speech for three days and still get tongue-tied when it came time to say it, that did not bode well for his career as a leader.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

She raised an amused eyebrow. "What for?"

"Everything." He hesitated. So much for practice makes perfect. "Back in Rossotorres, you – you saved my life."

"It was just basic first aid. You weren't dying."

"I wasn't talking about the arrow. If you hadn't been there, I would have rotted in the Red Prince's castle until the end of the war. You might not literally have stopped me from dying, but –" He trailed off rather lamely.

She was silent for a long time, looking down at the floor between them. "I think I owe you as much as you owe me. You risked _everything_ to get me out of there, when I'd practically stabbed you in the back the last time we spoke."

"You think _you_ stabbed me in the back?" he asked incredulously. "Who's the one who switched sides and then left you to be dragged away by the Red Prince's men?"

"You made up for it." She looked up at him. "Not only did you rescue me, but the information you've discovered about Rossotorres and the rest of Raudrlin will be invaluable."

A very faint smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "Are we even, then?"

Her eyes danced. "For the moment."

Marcus chuckled, then glanced around. Both the upper and lower halls were empty. His heart unexpectedly slammed against his ribcage. He took a deep breath.

"Alandra, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Would – would you consider –"

"Hey, you two!"

Kestral's voice sliced between them, and they shied away from each other like a pair of foals. Alandra was blushing furiously; Marcus could feel him own cheeks warming. He looked down the stairs. Kes was standing in the middle of the main hall, arms folded, both eyebrows in the air.

"What do _you_ want?"

"I'm leaving for the harbour now. I'm going to go and help Wise Boy out in Janub, remember?"

"And?"

"Aren't you two going to see me off?" She smiled sweetly.

"If you insist."

Kestral spun and bounced towards the back door to the stables. Alandra began to race down the steps two at a time. He didn't follow.

She stopped at the bottom, then looked back up at him. "What did you want to ask me?" she inquired hesitantly.

"Nothing important."

* * *

**Author's Note, Part 2:** In January 2009, I acquired a computer game called _The Settlers: Rise of an Empire_. Around level three, I became convinced that characters Marcus and Alandra were absolutely meant for each other. In a bored twenty minutes with pen and paper handy, I wrote the first few paragraphs of _Hopeless Sincerity_. I've never looked back.

While _Friendly Fire_ is the (current) conclusion of their arc, _The Mathematics of Deceit_ is still my favourite of all my Marcus/Alandra stories. Even in the original, poor early drafts, it's a story of treachery, misunderstandings, intrigue and love. _Hopeless Sincerity_ might be the start of their romance, and _Friendly Fire_ – well, I won't spoil _that_.

But this story is when they _prove_ they love each other, even if they're not quite ready to admit it yet. That's why I'll always like it the most.

Thanks for reading _The Mathematics of Deceit_; I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. A cliché sentiment, but still sincere.


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